


Again (Like We Did Last Summer)

by beaubete



Category: Mojo (2013 cast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Homophobic Language, M/M, antisemitic character, references to child molestation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baby demanded he kiss his pegs and no one else was going to save him.  So he did it. -- an alternate ending for Act Two, scene one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Again (Like We Did Last Summer)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a line from the song "Let's Twist Again" by Chubby Checker; the song is from 1959 (a year after the play is set), but please forgive that.

“Just do this and it’ll make Mickey happy”—and Luke’s not sure what he’s said, but Baby’s gone stiff, suddenly tense and the eye, that fucking eye is back.  “What?  What did I say?” he asks, because he’s had just about enough of this, thank you.  Enough of the constant tension and enough of the staring and fucking enough of the walking on fucking eggshells, and Baby can just go fuck himself, the fucking—

It’s so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it, only knows he said it because his lips moved and what the fuck else is Baby going to say?  “Kiss my pegs.”

And that’s fucking it, innit?  That’s fucking it, that’s enough and he’s done, because if no one’s going to say something, if no one’s going to sit this fucking jew the fuck down and show him his fucking place, if no one’s going to say, “Skinny, my boy, my chum, my mate, let me knock his fucking teeth from his head for you.  He’s got no fucking right, no fucking right at all, so hung up on you for no fucking reason, the cunt,” well.

But they don’t, do they?  The bastards.  In it for themselves, as always.  They’re telling him to do it, to bend his knee and place one on the fucking hem, la di dah like Baby’s the Sheik of Araby, fucking Baby Ezra King of the Pigfucking Jews.  “Fuck off,” he snarls instead, “Fuck off.”  He appeals to Mickey, begging-like, with his eyes because Mickey’s the one can take care of this, can fix it all right now, but he doesn’t.  Won’t.  He just asks Baby all nice to go upstairs, and Baby does it.

Yeah, alright.  Baby does it, because that’s where the cutlass is.  And then they’re fucking shouting, screaming, and each breath burns in Luke’s chest, in: I’m going to die.  Out: He’s going to kill me.  In: I’m going to die.  Out: He’s going to kill me.  And Luke, Skinny Luke, sees his life flashing before his eyes all slow and dreamy like the pictures, and it’s fucking depressing how few dishy birds are in the montage and a little bit eye-opening how often it’s Baby: Baby at the bar, snapping his fingers; Baby blowing smoke rings to impress the girls; Baby in red plims laced up like he’s fucking James Dean and a fucking comb twirling in his hair, the smell of brylcreem coming off him in waves.  It’s Baby in fucking stay-like-it-twelve-pleats and Luke searching the whole fucking city until he’s found the shop in Monkeytown and got a pair of his own.  Didn’t have two pence to rub together after, but he had a pair of those trousers.  And isn’t that the fucking problem now?  Because Luke can’t string a word together without it being a lie, and it’s out of his mouth before he’s caught up: “Fine!  I’ll do it!”

And no one stops him.  Baby’s got a grin on his face like he’s won something, won a prize, won the fucking—the fucking—Luke doesn’t know.  The fucking Derby or some shit, this shit-eating grin on his face, and he beckons.  Just leans over, twitches his hand like Luke is a dog, like he’s a fucking dog, woof-woof and crawling over on his knees, messing up his new trousers, but he does it, crawls over.  Puts his hand on Baby’s knee and looks up the length of him.

“Kiss ‘em, Skinny Luke.  It’s okay.  I know how much you really want to,” Baby tells him, and it’s weird.  It’s weird because that’s the voice Baby uses on the—he uses it on the girls, on the twelve year olds and their pretty school clothes when they’re not supposed to be out in this part of Soho because there are men like Baby here, and it makes.  That voice.  It makes Luke go still, makes him obey.  It makes him shiver, like the cold finger of death just poked its way up his spine.

“Yeah,” he says.  His mouth is hot, dry.  “Yeah.  Yes.  Yes, I’ll kiss your fucking pegs.  You fucking queer, you fucking—I’ll fucking do it, and after you’ll leave me the fuck alone.  No more fucking cutlass, no more—I might wanna have children someday.  Yes.  I’ll do it.  Just back the fuck off.”

Baby doesn’t say anything, just bows like some sort of magnanimous prince, and Luke’s fingers squeeze, just a little.  He glances up again and Baby’s watching—probably getting off on it, the fucking—just watching, with his eyes all dark and big like he can’t believe it.  Luke screws his courage to the sticking place—he doesn’t know where he heard that, but he likes it.  It’s got a real poetic turn to it, real fancy and learn-ed and posh, like maybe it’s Shakespeare or maybe it’s just some chap from the BBC, like it matters—and.

Baby’s got a smell to him, of course he does.  They’ve all been stuck here a day or two, Luke wouldn’t kiss his own mum smelling the way he does, to say nothing of the odor that’s come from the bins in the corner by the bar, that sick-making stench, but Baby’s got a smell, even his fucking knees have a smell like spilled beer and aftershave.  Not the cheap stuff, either—the nice stuff, the stuff you gotta go all the way to Harrod’s for, the.  The stuff Ezra wears.  Wore.  Baby smells like Ezra.  Not the whole way, not the sweaty old man smell, not the cheap desperation and the stink of dirty man, not the way he sometimes smelled like he’d just come off in his office—that always left Luke flustered and red-faced, and he wouldn’t.  He wouldn’t go in there on those days, wouldn’t go near the place, wouldn’t.  Wasn’t safe, you’d walk out of there like—Ezra’d patted his bum once, just once.  Just once, and Luke wouldn’t.  He’d drive the van, he’d pull the jukes.  He wouldn’t go near the Atlantic for all the pretty young things in the world after that wrinkled old hand on his arse like it had a right to be there.  Wouldn’t be alone with him when he was in that sort of mood, no one could.  No one but Baby.

“Baby.”  Luke doesn’t mean to say it.  He doesn’t.  Swear on his mum and on his Uncle Tommy’s pistols, he doesn’t mean to say it and Baby, of course he doesn’t give a shit.  Grabs his hair with one hand and it’s all teeth now, all gritting and snarling teeth and.  Oh.  Yes, yeah.  Yeah.  Baby has a smell to him, like stale beer and brylcreem and Ezra’s aftershave, washing up powder and cock, that thick smell he knows from his own room after tossing off, from a curious sniff after handling himself.  Luke can feel—

“Yeah,” Baby mutters.  He’s real quiet, quiet low, but Luke can hear him in his blood, in the sick pulse of his blood as Baby grinds his face into his cock.  “Take it, Baby.  Take it good.  You always know how to make Daddy happy.  Make Daddy happy, Baby.  Little blow job.  You little blow job.  Get it in there, get it good and fucking wet, get it—”  And Baby’s not hard, not at all, not even a little bit, not like Luke with the snot running down his face and fuck it feels like his lip—like it caught on the button or—like he’s bleeding, hot wet stains and his teeth are squeaking on the cotton as Baby stares down at him with his eyes wide like a girl in the pictures when the baddies are coming for her.  Baby just stares down.  Rubs his cock on Luke’s face.  Stares.

When Luke finally manages to get his hands up, get them around Baby’s hips to push, manages to send himself sprawling back panting on the floor with a face that still smells like cock, there’s a purpling stain spread across Baby’s lap like some girl on the rag’s been on him, like he’s been fucking some bint on her monthly bleed, but it’s Luke’s lip has been busted, going puffy and swollen and hot.  “Fuck you, you fucking tosser.  Fucking fairy tosser,” Luke says, but.  But.  There’s no power in it, in the hot lump between his legs and his mouth that tastes like cock and Ezra’s aftershave.

Baby’s voice breaks the silence as he bursts into song.  “Yeah, round and round and up and down we go again—”  He’s silent a moment, the song falling from his lips.  Luke’s heart clenches.  “Round and,” Baby sings again.  He can’t.  “Oh, baby make me know—,” but the words won’t come, and Luke pushes back, sliding on the floor to give him space.  “Make me….”

“Get out,” Mickey snarls.  And Baby nods slow and does.

 


End file.
